The Colporteur and Farmer

Farmer. Well, friend, you seem to be weary; will you step into the house and rest yourself?

Colporteur. I will, and would thank you for a drink of cold water.

Far. Will you not take a little something with it? I have some good old whiskey.

Colp. No, my friend, I have seen so much evil from drinking whiskey and such like liquors, that I have resolved never to take any intoxicating drink.

Far. I guess you belong to a Temperance Society.

Colp. I profess to be a Christian, and I feel myself bound to prevent evil and do good to the utmost of my power; and I am of opinion that few things have occasioned more vice and misery than strong drink. It has rendered thousands of families wretched, and brought many a promising man to a drunkard’s grave. Besides, it has burdened the country with taxes to support prisons, poor-houses, and hospitals, which are principally filled by persons brought there by strong drink.

Far. To drink to excess is bad, but a little will hurt nobody. I have taken a little every day for twenty years, and am nothing the worse for it. I think it does me good, and I cannot do without it now any more than I can do without my tobacco.

Colp. How old may you be, friend?

Tar. If I live I shall be four and forty the tenth day of next June.

Colp. Well, sir, I will tell you what I know and have seen. Many moderate drinkers continue to be sober men until they reach the age of fifty or fifty-five, and then become sots the remainder of their days.

Far. How can that be accounted for?

Colp. I will tell you. While the vigor of their constitution remains, the spirit which they are accustomed to take every day does not affect them; but at the turn of life, when their strength is weakened, they cannot bear the same quantity which they took before, and they become drunkards by taking just the same quantity they had been used to take for twenty years. But I believe moderate drinkers never lessen the quantity of whiskey or rum which they put into their grog. Do you not find, friend, that you require that your daily drink should be somewhat stronger the longer you continue at it?

Tar. Well, I must confess that what you say is true; and it accounts for what appeared strange to me here in our neighborhood. Two men that were thought to be very religious — now I don’t pretend to any religion myself — but we all did believe that J.

M and W. B were good men, if there were

any in the land: one of them was an elder in the Presbyterian church, and the other a deacon in the Baptist church, and no one ever suspected that they drank too much; but about the same time they were both had under dealings for intoxication, and both are now suspended from their societies.. And as you say, this came upon them just at the turn of life, when, as we may say, old age begins.

Colp. Is there any appearance of a reformation since they have been dealt with by their churches?

Far. Far from it. They drink harder since than before, and though they both helped to turn many a one out for drunkenness, they are both greatly offended that the same measure has been dealt to them which they measured to others.

Colp. Mark me now. There is scarcely the shadow of hope for such. Men who drink by spells may sometimes be reclaimed; but when did you ever see a sot who takes too much every day in the year, turn to be a sober man? What you say of these two neighbors is true of many thousands in our land; they drink, without being intoxicated, for ten, fifteen, or twenty years, and then, to the grief and astonishment of all their friends, become sots. But I will tell you another reason why some men and some whole families become drunkards about the turn of life. About that time the spirits are apt to flag, and men commonly leave off active business. Now these two things go together. Men who have lived an active, bustling life, when they retire from business and expect to enjoy themselves at home, are almost sure to become low-spirited, and feeling restless and uneasy they take to the bottle and find a temporary relief; and so they go on, from bad to worse, until they are drunk all the time.

Far. Really, friend, you alarm me by what you say. I have never before felt that I was in any danger of becoming a drunkard; but I must think my two neighbors had as good a right and better to feel sure than I have. And so much of what you say I know to be true, that I really begin to fear for myself. Now, suppose I should wish to quit drinking whiskey, would you advise me to taper off by degrees, or to break off at once?

Colp. By all means at once. I believe no one ever was successful on the other plan. Be resolute, keep in view your danger and the ruin which you would bring on your family if you should become a drunkard, and determine never to taste another drop unless as a medicine; and there is danger in taking spirits even as a medicine, to those who have been much addicted to its use.

Far. Did you not say that some whole families are more in danger of falling under the influence of this evil habit than others? How do you account for that?

Colp. Upon the principle already stated, that some whole families are at a certain age very apt to become somewhat melancholy, hypped as we say, and then they are very apt to take to drink. It is a sad remedy, but it answers for the moment. I recollect a case of this kind: a very respectable and apparently religious man, who had served in the legislature of the state, and was a magistrate, and as well informed as any man who had not received a liberal education. He was in easy, or rather affluent circumstances, had a large family around him, sons and daughters, the oldest of whom were well educated and very promising. This gentleman had, as was common with almost every body, been accustomed to take one or two drinks of grog before dinner, but was never suspected of intoxication, until at about the age of fifty or fifty-five he became almost at once a drunkard of the worst kind; that is, he was when in liquor as raving a madman as ever was in bedlam. I need not tell you of the mortification and distress of his wife and children. The former did not live long to suffer the overwhelming calamity which had come on the family. Whether this was the cause of her disease and death is what I do not know. Many said it was. The family being among the first in the society where they lived, and possessing wealth and uncommon talents, were struck down to the dust; for perhaps they had been accustomed, as we say, to carry their heads a little too high. The church also in which he was an officer felt the stroke most keenly. He had been a leading man in all religious concerns, and was liberal in the support and propagation of the gospel. None were pleased but the enemies of religion, and even some of them seemed to feel badly about it; but the confirmed infidel scoffed louder than ever, and said, “Here is one of your saints: they are all alike; and all their religion is nothing but hypocrisy.’7 The calamity had, I think, a good effect on the children. Not one of them would taste ardent spirits, at a time when it was commonly used by all classes, and their pride was evidently brought down.

Far. Well, was he ever reclaimed?

Colp. If he was, it was on his death-bed. I have heard that he was truly penitent; but of the reality of such repentance there must always be great reason to doubt.

Far. Did all his children continue to be temperate?

Colp. I was going to tell about his oldest son, to show the truth of what I said about families having sometimes a something that led to drunkenness. I was conversing one day with a sensible old gentleman who had been long the friend and companion of the person described above. I asked him how he could account for his falling so suddenly into the open practice of this vice. He said it was “owing to a kind of melancholy or miserable depression to which at a certain age the family are subject; and you ’11 see,” said he, “that the oldest son, when he arrives at that age, will become a drunkard too.”

I was, I confess, shocked at the very supposition, as he was a pattern of sobriety, and from his youth had drunk nothing stronger than water or household beer. I said it was impossible that this man should take to drink, especially as he appeared to be a consistent Christian, and devout and pious in all his conduct at home and abroad.

Very true, very true,” said the shrewd old gentleman, “but not more so than his father, and you’ll see that he will go the same way.”

Some years afterwards, when I had forgotten this conversation, the gentleman of whom he spoke, having retired from active business to enjoy the repose which he supposed he needed, fell into a state of depression which alarmed his friends. A more miserable man I never saw; and then I began to fear that the word of the old gentleman would come true. He had every thing about him that heart could wish, but still he was miserable. He was so restless that he could not contain himself many minutes in any position.

Far. Well, did he take to the bottle at last?

Colp. No; blessed be God, he had grace given him to resist the most powerful temptations. His physician prescribed old Madeira as the best remedy.

He tried it, but it increased his malady. Some recommended brown stout; some, old whiskey; and some, a gill of French brandy every morning in a quart of new milk. But his aversion to the use of spirits prevented him from trying any of these remedies. The only thing which he did find any relief from was the pipe. It was curious to see a man who had detested the use of tobacco in every form all his life before, now sitting and puffing at the pipe by the hour. Indeed, he became so attached to it that he smoked as he rode on horseback, lighting his pipe from a tinder-box.

Far. And did he ever get well again?

Colp. Yes; but not until he returned to an active life. He engaged in a business which required him to be much on horseback, and was himself again, except that a tinge of melancholy remained.

Far. One thing I would ask, as you seem to have studied much on this subject, why is it that strong drink kills many stout young men in a few years; while others who drink hard, and are scarcely ever sober, live as long as other men?

Colp. The same question I once asked a very wise man on the following occasion. I had gone to a public meeting of the people, I think on a court-day, and while conversing with this man, there came up one of the tallest men I ever saw, and he was as straight as an Indian. I recollected as soon as he came near that I had known him some years before, but I soon saw that he had lost all recollection of me. He spoke to the gentleman who was talking with me, but his speech was so thick that I could scarcely understand a word he said. His face was pale and much bloated, and the black under his eyes looked as if he had been bruised. But what surprised me most, not only his hands but his whole flesh trembled in a remarkable manner. When he had passed by us, the sage with whom I was conversing said, “There is one of our finest young men destroyed with accursed alcohol”

“With what?” said I, not knowing then the meaning of the word.

“With ardent spirits,” said he.” A more promising young man we had not in this community, and now you see he has the premonitory symptoms of a most horrible death by delirium tremens:’’

“What?” said I, being again at a loss for his meaning.

“It may,” said he, “be called in English the trembling madness. Of all horrible scenes that ever I witnessed,” added he,” the worst was the death of a near relation of mine with this dreadful disease, brought on by drinking. I hope I shall never have my feelings so harrowed again; and the awful and terrific impressions made on my imagination I am afraid will never be removed. He was a stout, strong man, a little turned of thirty years of age. It took four men to hold him, and after seeming to sleep a few moments, he would start up, his eyes staring like fire-balls, and would scream with a voice of such agony as I had never conceived; and throwing himself back he would exclaim with horror, ‘Hell-fire, hell-fire; keep them off; keep them off me; they have come to drag me down to the lake of fire.7 Then he broke forth in the most horrid blasphemies which the tongue could utter; soon after which he fell into one convulsion fit after another until he expired, with the most frightful contortions of countenance I ever beheld.

“And/7 said he, “the man who passed us just now, though walking abroad, is very near a death of the same kind. I have observed this fell disease in all its stages, and know all its symptoms. That large, strong man who spoke to me is the son of an old friend who himself came to the drunkard’s grave. His sons were early initiated into the practice of dram-drinking in the morning, and grog-drinking at noon, and toddydrinking at dinner. This is the youngest and the last of the family. The others have already finished their mad career, and you will hear that this one has followed them in a few weeks.”

I asked if he had a family.

“Yes,” said he, “as amiable and affectionate a wife as any man in the land, a lady of the first family in the county; but her heart is already broken. She is never seen abroad; and when her nearest friends visit her she makes a great exertion to assume an air of cheerfulness, and never alludes in the most distant manner to the intemperate habits of her husband. But when left alone with her four sweet little children about her knee, she weeps almost perpetually. One of her two little daughters the other day, looking up into her mother’s face, said in the most tender, affecting tone, ‘Dear mother, what ails you? why do you cry so?7 She made no answer; but clasped the dear little girl to her bosom, foreseeing that in a little time she would be fatherless.”

But, said I, how comes it that this hale young man is killed so soon by this poison, and here is old John Tarry, who has been a hard drinker for

.forty years, and yet seems likely to live a long time yet?”

“O,” said he, “that is easily explained. The human constitution can by slow degrees be accommodated to almost any poison, so that the dose which would produce certain death in another will not destroy it. For example, there is a lady in my immediate vicinity who swallows as much morphine every day, and several times in the day, as would kill you or me without a doubt. And you have heard of a certain queen of England who fortified herself against poison by gradually increasing the dose until it had little effect on her constitution. So it is with alcohol; taken by degrees, the constitution becomes hardened against its deleterious effects.”

I begged him to tell me what the poison was which he mentioned as being taken by the lady in his neighborhood. He smiled, and said he thought that every body knew that morphine was a purified extract of opium.

Far. Well, friend, I must confess that what you have said brings me to a pause. I never saw the danger of moderate drinking as I do now. And were it not for one thing, I think I could muster up resolution to leave off the practice. But I have some neighbors with whom I am in the habit of spending a social hour. Now if I should quit drinking altogether these men would ridicule me beyond measure, and I can bear any thing better than to be laughed at.

Colp. Never mind the jeers and scoffs of such men. I dare say many that have joined your club have already become drunkards, and the rest, if they continue to drink, will probably go the same way.

Act the part of a reasonable man. The wise man# says, “The prudent man foreseeth the evil and hideth himself, but the foolish pass on and are punished.” These very men, in their serious moments, will secretly approve your course, however in self-defence they may ridicule you. And who knows but your example, when you explain the reasons of it, may have a happy influence on them, to induce them to leave off a practice which leads so many to ruin. And rest assured, that the trial which you fear will soon be over. Your old companions, if they cannot be persuaded to follow your example, will soon cut your society and trouble you no more.

Far. Well, a thought has come into my mind that I will not break off abruptly, but will taper off by degrees, and thus the thing will scarcely be noticed.

Colp. I tell you, friend, this will not do. I never yet knew any one weaned from the use of strong drink in this way. I have known fond mothers attempt to wean their children in this gradual way: it never succeeded. The difficulty was as great at. the last as the first. There is no safety or certainty here but in total abstinence. All that is wanted is a strongresolution to deny yourself, and moral courage to meet the jeers of your old comrades.

Far. I feel much inclined to follow your advice, but I cannot conveniently begin just now, for I have an appointment to meet some persons on public business, and it has ever been our custom at these meetings to treat each other in turn, and it so happens that this will be expected of me at our next meeting; and I never can endure to have it said that I was too niggardly to do my part, and be as free with my money as another. But after this meeting is over I am resolved to begin a new course.

Colp. Now, my dear sir, if you will listen to the advice of a stranger who sincerely desires your welfare, you will not postpone putting your resolution into practice at once. Delays are dangerous, and in nothing more dangerous than reforming what is amiss in our own conduct, especially where inveterate habit is to be overcome. No, sir, if instead of treating your friends whom you expect to meet, you frankly inform them of your change of view, and of your purpose to relinquish all use of intoxicating liquors, you will have no difficulty; and that they may have no reason to attribute your course to stinginess, you can propose to them to spend the money commonly given for drink, in the purchase of useful books for the poor, or in schooling some poor child.

Far. What you say has weight. I will think of it; and I know nothing would better please my wife, for she has a mortal hatred of drunkards, and often wishes that there was not a drop of whiskey in the land; for two of her brothers have already gone down to the drunkard’s grave, as you call it.

But come, friend, let us go into the house; it must be near our dinner-time; and you seem to have travelled far this morning with that heavy pack. But what do you carry? What notions to suit the women? they are always glad to see the pedlar coming, and are sure to have a little cash laid up to buy some trifles.

Colp. I carry nothing but books and tracts.

Far. Very good. We often buy cheap books to amuse us in the long winter nights. Have you any novels or funny stories in your collection?

Colp. No, friend; my books are of a very different kind; they are all religious books, calculated to make men wise unto salvation. We have certain evidence that many have been savingly benefited by the books and tracts we circulate. Come, make a trial of one or two, and if you become interested in them you will not care for fictitious narratives and funny stories any more* Here is “Doddridge’s Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul;” also “Alleine’s Alarm to the Unconverted,7’ “Baxter’s Call to the Unconverted,” and this one with cuts is “Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress.” Now, if you will take the whole of these, you shall have them for one dollar and eight cents.

Far. I am afraid we shall not be amused by these religious books, and that they will lie on the shelf unopened, and we shall have nothing for our money.

Colp. Well, I will tell you what I will do. You may keep these books until I return in the winter; when if, on examination, you do not think proper to buy them, I will take them back; but I beg that you will not neglect to peruse them. On the Lord’s day, when you have no preaching near, you might read a portion out of one of them to your family, in the place of a sermon.

Far. Your proposal is not only fair, but generous. I will keep the books until you return, and will read so much as to find whether they suit me; and if you should never return, I suppose the books will be mine.

Colp. Yes, if you will promise to lend them to any of your neighbors who may wish to peruse them.

Far. Well, that is fair enough; and if I should not want to read them, my wife will, for she often borrows religious books.